


Conductor of Light

by SCH



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Brettlock Universe, Canon Elements, Elements from the books, I will be extending this 'verse as time goes by, M/M, but I will follow no schedule, this is my take on their lives so no hating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-22 08:25:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11963514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SCH/pseuds/SCH
Summary: This is my take on how Mr. Sherlock Holmes met the good army doctor John Watson, at Barts Hospital in 1881, and their many adventures which followed in Victorian London.





	1. A Study in Lavender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kan_bu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kan_bu/gifts).



> I wrote this fic on my mobile phone, so... I do apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors. Feel free to point them out to me, if so, since my first language isn't english. :)
> 
> My Sherlock Holmes is, and always will be, Jeremy Brett. Always. This fic is dedicated to you, dear Jeremy. Rest in peace, my dear, in whatever way you have found out there... beyond our understanding and comprehension, no doubt, much to your own amusement I'm sure. *g* <3
> 
> My deduction of their age is as follows: John took his medical degree in 1878, and when he met Sherlock in 1881 John had travelled a great deal and had been in the army. So, he would have had to be born between 1852-54, give or take a few years, if he would have had time to do all those things before he met Sherlock. In this story I have decided to make Watson 27 years of age, and Sherlock 25, and that's that. Not that it matters very much, I guess, but I like to have a timeline to refer to when I write. :)
> 
> A young Holmes:  
> 
> 
> A young Watson:  
> 
> 
> "What is the meaning of it, Watson? What is the object of this... circle of misery and violence and fear? It must have a purpose. Or our universe has no meaning and that is unthinkable. But what purpose? That... is humanity's great problem... to which reason, so far, has no answer."  
> \-- Sherlock Holmes (Jeremy Brett), in The Cardboard Box from '94. My favorite quote from the tv-show. Makes me cry every time I see Jeremy deliver those lines.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John's first meeting, and how Sherlock managed to make John follow him all the way home to Baker street.

Sherlock was walking down the street, following a lead on his latest case, when he bumped into someone outside Barts Hospital. It was mostly his own fault since his mind had been preoccupied by the facts of the case, but the man seemed to take the whole blame onto his own shoulders and apologized again and again with a weak voice.

"Pardon me, sir. I am so sorry. I will, of course, be more careful in the future. I do apologize." The man had a hat covering most of his sunburnt face, his clothes had seen better days hanging from his thin frame -- illness or injury most likely, -- but the most misserable thing about him were the injured leg and shoulder. Damned wars.

Sherlock was too stunned to move or answer the man for a moment, all his focus on deducing, and his silence caused the man to hunch and withdraw. He tried to reassure the man, "My dear fellow, think nothing of it." But the man hardly looked at him as he backed away towards the hospital with a resigned shrug. 

When the man rounded the corner into the hospital, disappearing from sight, Sherlock woke as if from a trance. The case Sherlock had been working on was completely pushed out of his mind, and instead this most singular event took up all his mental powers to memorise it forever. Sherlock knew this would be a defining moment for him, since he never shied away from self-knowledge or self-development, and there was no way he would ever let this man walk out of his life. 

Oh, he already knew all the basic fact. Such as the military background, his medical training, and his recent war injuries. That was too superficial though, and told him nothing about what had broken this man's spirit or caused him such anguish? 

Most curious of all were Sherlock's senses, his mind capacity, because they were singing and humming along like a finely tuned instrument. It was as if he had taken cocain and morphine and shot it straight into his brain centre, because suddenly he could see everything. The case he had been working on was an open book to him, the solution crystal clear, and he laughed quietly to himself much to his own surprise. This singular most extraordinary event fascinated him immensely, since he had never experienced anything like it before, and without conscious thought he followed the man into the hospital. The man's echoing footsteps very destinct, and Sherlock followed them at a distance.

"A conductor or light." Sherlock whispered to himself as he thought back to a conversation he and Mycroft had had many years ago.

_"My what, oh brother dear?" Sherlock snarked at his brother, but Mycroft only raised an eyebrow and continued._

_"You should put your mind into finding your own conductor of light, as I have done over the years. It is a most satisfying endeavour." Mycroft looked just a little smug, and Sherlock sniffed at him with displeasure._

_"Whatever for?"_

_"You will know when you find this lady... or gentleman, my dear brother." Mycroft smiled softly and rubbed a simple yet beautiful ring between his fingers._

Why this conversation came to him Sherlock understood perfectly well, but why this military man was the one to wake his every interest was more perplexing. It went beyond reason and logic, his own logic that is, and belonged more to the realm of the supernatural. His mind was perfectly clear still, his logic humming, and he quit questioning it. Like his brother had done before him, he accepted it wholeheartedly. This soldier was to be his muse, and he would do anything in his power to make it happen. 

He stopped before the door the soldier had walked through just seconds before, and took a deep breath. The door lead into one of the conference rooms the hospital offered to visiting lecturers, and Sherlock shamelessly opened the door a crack to listen to the conversation coming from inside. For the first time in a long time he had to steel his nerves before confronting someone, his heart beating fast in his chest, and in order to do that with any calm he needed more information.

It was a serious breech of this man's privacy of course, to eavesdrop in this fashion, but Sherlock had a very strong feeling he needed to be here. He needed to know more about this man -- it was essential, to him more than the army man -- and he knew it was wrong of him to be selfish like this. It was just... he had never been selfish in any way that mattered before and he needed this man. Like he needed air, or possibly tobacco. 

The man's soft and kind voice reached him though the crack and Sherlock felt his mouth pull into a soft smile, an unusual thing to occur, and he listened intently with much interest. It was the sound of the voice, more than the words, which spoke to him. This day was turning out to hold many strange but fantastic revelations, Sherlock mused to himself and opened the door a little more. A tingle ran down his spine as he saw the man through the crack, and he wanted nothing more than to fly across the floor to meet him officially.

The shorter, and more healthy looking gentleman, soon left the room. His expression one of puzzlement and exasperation, and Sherlock deduced his dear soldier much have stood firm on some matter of importance. Still in the room was one haggard looking soldier, his face filled with lines of exhaustion and toil, and Sherlock took this into account. It didn't stop him from entering the room anyway, because he couldn't lose this one chance. 

"Excuse me, sir." He began, as he pushed his way into the room, but was stopped from continuing by the other man's quiet gasp. It sounded half panicked, and Sherlock took a mental step back as he berated himself. Of course, paranoia and mental distress from the soldier's hard fought military service should have stopped him from approching the man like this. It was too late to be apologetic about it now though, and Sherlock couldn't regret it. Not really, not when his mind was singing to him.

This man wasn't weak or helpless to be sure, and Sherlock had no worries he would be able to stand up to his very activ personality. The man had a will of steel and a constitution that would bow to noone after all. Yes, this man had seen and done much during his many years of service. He wasn't panicked because of Sherlock's apperance or person, he was panicked because of the abrupt way he had entered the room. It put him on high allert, to be startled like this, and Sherlock saw the man push the panic beneath the surface of a pleasant smile. The strong back straightened with determination, and the capable hands unclenching at his sides. This man didn't need protection, he was the protector, and Sherlock approved greatly of this remarkable trait.

"State your business, sir, if you please?" The man said with half a smile, wiped the panicked sweat from his brow, and sat down behind the sturdy desk at the front of the room. 

An act of protection as well as support for his injuries, Sherlock observed, it was all so very obvious to him. This man was commonplace to be sure, but even though he was... he didn't cause the craving for stimulants most orther commonplace things did. And for the first time in all his five and twenty years Sherlock's fragile and frozen heart thawed slightly. 

"I do apologize for my rude intrusion," Sherlock bowed slightly and took off his top hat. "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"You are a student here, are you not, Mr. Holmes?" The man asked with a frown, in a very observant and frank way, and Sherlock was thrilled. 

"Yes, indeed I am." Sherlock put his finger over his lips, in his usual way, and studied the man. Taking pleasure in being this close to someone he actually liked, for once. He was studied in return, intently -- Sherlock saw everything on his expressive face -- but he only motioned for Sherlock to continue talking.

"Yes, thank you. While I do indeed have money and power in my family, that is beside the point." Sherlock started and quickly hurried on, is voice shaking slightly. "May I ask your name, good sir?" 

"Why? My name is of no importance to someone as refined as you, sir." John looked bone tired all of a sudden, and Sherlock didn't know if it was wise to push on. Problem was, he had to. 

"I beg you to share it anyway. If it is not too much to ask of a gentleman?" 

Watson didn't look impressed in the least, but sighed and gave in. "Very well, Mr. Holmes. My name is John Watson, doctor by profession. Former army surgeon. At your service, of course." 

"I see. No longer in practise due to... events in the army, which still affects you a great deal I'm sad to see. You injuried your shoulder and leg while in service in Afghanistan, no doubt." John was growing paler by the second, and Sherlock backtracked. "I am getting ahead of myself, and for that I do apologize. My business here is very much connected to you, my dear fellow. I followed you inside, in a rather rash and unplanned way I might add, because of something my brother told me some time ago." 

At this John raised his eyebrows, still pale as death, but said nothing. Sherlock could see the panic was still moving under his skin, but his will to stay calm was winning over his unpredictable emotions. It was almost enough to cause pity in those who met him, a man in his late twenties almost destroyed by the war, but Sherlock refused to feel anything of the kind. 

"We were discussing our intellectual gifts." Sherlock started, and was slightly annoyed to see John almost bursting with amusement at this. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and continued. "You saw me use my gifts earlier, my deduction concerning yourself, Mr. Watson." 

"Yes, I did notice, how did you do that?" John looked tired but curious, and Sherlock smiled a quick and awkward smile. "I take it you haven't been following me, or looked me up, since you told me you rushed in here after me." 

"That is indeed the case." Sherlock laid his hat and walking staf on the table and started pacing the room. He had to get this right so he didn't frighten John away from him forever. "As I was saying, me and my brother Mycroft were discussing our intellectual gifts, and... at that time we touched on the subject of our intellectual inspiration as well.

"Intellectual inspiration?" John asked softly, his face now alight with curiosity, and Sherlock knew they had this in common -- this unsatable lust for knowledge and adventure -- and he could tell his explanation would actually go down okay with the good doctor. 

"Indeed." He nodded firmly and stopped pacing in front of John, looking down at the doctor with bright and open eyes. "My brother found his... inspiration some time ago, and I have never seen him use his abilities as effectively as from that point onwards." Sherlock tapped his fingers against his leg in thought, and when he caught it he snapped his fingers. A common move on his part but it made John flinch and hunch his shoulders, and Sherlock mentally hit himself. John was still suffering from mental and physical pain from the war, and he needed a stable environment for now, curse it.

John bowed down to massage his leg as he tried to collect his breath and Sherlock let him do that in peace, turning his back to the good doctor. When John cleared his throat Sherlock looked over at hilm with a glint in his eyes, and he was happy to see John responded positively to this. It was obvious John liked him enough to stay and listen. 

"I apologiz--" Sherlock tried, but John waved it away with half a smile. 

"No need to apologize, Mr. Holmes. Just my mental state, as you yourself put it, is in a somewhat fragile state at the moment." John leaned back in the chair, pushed it back from the desk, and sighed. It was an open and inviting move and Sherlock moved closer, sitting down on the desk facing the doctor. 

"I promise I did not approach you to cause you any undue pain, my dear fellow." Sherlock looked at John with a calm and sincere face, and John looked back at him with tired but accepting eyes. 

"I believe you, Mr. Holmes." 

"Please call me Sherlock, or Holmes, no need for any formality between us." He said with a firm voice, and John actually barked a laugh at this. 

"We are strangers still, Mr. Holmes. To keep it formal is only proper." 

"You are right, of course." Sherlock smiled at the doctor, one of his most genuine ones. "I will tell you all you need to know to drop the honorifics." John looked pleasantly surprised by this. "My name is, as you know, Sherlock Holmes. I come from a long line of noble and artistic people on my mother's side and from a lesser, but not poor, condition on my father's. We have, as you observed when I entered, enough money to live in comfort. I, on the other hand, can't stay idle when my brain urges me to observe, to act. My brother and I are alike in this, but we choose different paths to walk. I crave the stimuli only a good mystery can give me, while my brother holds a job at the government."

"You a policeman then, sir?" 

"Good heavens no!" Sherlook waved the words away like flies. "I am an unofficial consulting detective, the only one in the world." 

"How is that any different?" John asked with amusement written all over his face, mirth coloring his voice, and Sherlock now understood what love at first sight meant. It meant that your heart and mind was so full of one person nothing else could take this person's place, and right now his dear John was taking up all the places inside him. 

"I invented my own line of work, to help the common folk and the police. I am not employed by the government like a normal detective." He took pride in this fact, and he could see that he had impressed John very much. 

"You invented your own line of work?" The honorifics were slowly ebbing away Sherlock noticed with glee.

"Yes. There is no job like the one I wanted to have, so I invented it." He explained, with most of his attention aimed at John and his reactions. John looked calm and collected, nothing of the earlier panic visible, and it gave Sherlock great pleasure to witness. "I work my own hours, get paid sufficiently by my own wages, and the work is... in itself, a great reward." 

John nodded and slowly rose from the chair, his mind set on something Sherlock couldn't quite deduce. "This intellectual inspiration you mentioned, what does it mean? Why follow me here at all. I am, as you yourself described, only a former army doctor with several... difficulties."

"There is nothing about you, dear John, that are only... or just. You are so much more." Sherlock followed John as he left the room and headed towards the street. Almost leaving his hat and cane is his rush to follow. "Even though they won't hire you, here at Barts, it is only a matter of time. Don't be too hard on yourself." 

"I am broken, Mr. Holmes. It is what everyone believes. I... even you implied it." 

"Nonsense, my dear fellow." Sherlock dismissed John's words with a waving hand, and John looked at him with confusion. Sherlock hummed to himself as he linked his arm with John, at first John moved awkwardly beside him but soon the good doctor accepted it and placed his hand more firmly against him arm. "There is nothing broken about you, John. You give me more than you are capable of comprehending as of yet. Because while you yourself might not be luminous, John, I have discovered that you are indeed a conductor of light." 

"A conductor of light?" John frowned, but held on to Sherlock's arm harder, his mind working full time. "Oh, you have been describing me as your muse, have you not? I give your mental abilities... clarity and inspiration." 

"Ha! That is one way to define you. Yes, indeed." Sherlock mused, and steered them down the street towards Baker street where their future landlady Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them to arrive. John followed him obediently, his steps surer and his limp less defined, and Sherlock chuckled softly. Not only a physical limp then, but affected by the torutured mind of a former soldier as well. "I hope you won't think badly of me because of this fact." 

"But how can I be this to you, Holmes? And after only a chance meeting on the street no less." John sounded unsure, and very tired all of a sudden, and Sherlock quickly flagged down a carriage and helped John onto it. 

He had almost lost his composure when John casually used his name, in a most wonderful way, and his voice was a little choked as he gave the adress to the cabby. "Baker street, please." 

"Stalking, and now kidnapping, Mr. Holmes?" John leaned against him in the carriage with a weary sigh. 

"In a sense, yes, since I have no wish to let you out of my sight. It is also necessary for you to accompany me since I wish you to see our future living arrangements." John only snorted and shook his head at this, but Sherlock continued. "I overheard your conversation with your friend at the hospital, about how your wished to find a person to share rent with. I am this person, of course, since I find you most fascinating. Most people, my dear John, doesn't possess genius like me and my brother, but some -- like yourself -- have a remarkable power for stimulating it in others." 

"No modesty, I dare say." 

"I'm sorry to say doctor that I do not rank modesty among the virtues. For me, as a logician, everything should be seen exactly as it is." John had clearly not expexcted this answer, his eyes big as saucers, and Sherlock enjoyed their special blend of blue. "I will never underestimate, nor exagerate, my abilities. I will only ever speak the absolute truth. And as my brother explained it, your role in all this is all very simple. You will just have to exist and I will be able to use my mental faculties to their fullest potential. I confess that, should you come live and work with me, I shall forever be in your debt." John was now gaping at him, shocked speechless, and Sherlock felt very good about it. He promised himself to surprise John at every turn, because his reactions were delicious. 

They were quiet for a long time, as the carriage moved them ever closer to Baker street, and Sherlock almost didn't hear it when John whispered. "I would like that very much." 

Sherlock's face shone like the sun at those simple words, and he heard John gasp at the radiance of his joy. It was a rare occurrence that he was this happy, Sherlock confessed to himself, and he let it all out for John to see. "I am in your debt, my dear John, and I will do everything in my power to pay you back."

John shook his head and leaned more heavily against him, the excitement from the day finally catching up with him. "No need, Holmes. I think we will both benefit from this arrangement."

"I dare say we will." Sherlock knew he had tensed up as John leaned against him, but he forced himself to relax, as his dear doctor was almost asleep against him. For a soldier to relax his guard like this, he must feel very safe indeed. Sherlock felt warm and happy as he whispered back, "We will discuss details at a later date."

Sherlock banged twice on the inner roof of the carriage and it stopped right outside 221b Baker street. With John almost dead to the world Sherlock helped his companion off the carriage and into the warm and welcoming atmosphere of the rental house. Mrs, Hudson greeted them with a big smile, but kept quiet as John was mostly asleep on his feet. They got John settled in his bedroom on the top floor, and Sherlock thanked Mrs. Hudson properly. She waved his thanks to the side and made her way back down the stairs. 

"Good night, John." He said as he stroked the doctor's brown blond locks. "I hope your dreams will be easy ones." 

"They never are, not anymore, but thank you." John whispered with a weak voice, a smile on his lips, and Sherlock couldn't stop himself from kissing John's lax hand. The fingers twitched in his grip, but John didn't react more than that as he was already snoring. If John could be this relaxed with him, Sherlock was certain John would overcome his demons eventually. Those ghosts that haunted John would be a distant memory in no time, Sherlock would make sure of it... even if it was the last thing he did. John deserved no less.

He sat beside John, holding his hand, and refused to let the bad dreams take hold of his dear muse. They would have no chance against him in the dark of night. Of course they didn't as Sherlock chased them away again and again with soft words and even softer fingers. His vigil a well deserved one as the good doctor got a marvelous first night's sleep at Baker street. It put them both in a good mood the next morning when the discussion started, and at the end of it there was no question about it. This was where they belonged. Together. At 221b, Baker street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lavender roses = Love at first sight.


	2. A Promise in Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Watson and Sherlock talked about in the morning, and what happened to cement their bond forever.

Sherlock was stroking John's hand, quietly telling him of his last case as an undergrad, when the morning light finally woke the soldier. It took a long time for John's eyes to clear from sleep, not a morning person Sherlock deduced from the obvious facts. He wasn't bothered by it though, quite the opposite, as he was rather charmed by seeing John slowly waking up. Those blue eyes marvelous in the early morning light.

"As I was saying..." Sherlock squeezed John's hand and sat down beside him on the bed to continue his story. "I was helping Victor Trevor, a friend from those early days, with a most interesting case. A fellow student, a close friend of Victor's, needed help with a most mysterious event. You see, this friend's father had lost his pocket watch. The watch in itself was not important, of course, but..." As he continued the story he could see John enjoying himself, humming or awwing at certain events in the story, and Sherlock was very happy he had convinced the soldier to follow him home last night.

He continued the story for well over half an hour, and when he was done John was laughing so hard he had almost fallen out of bed.

"... and that, my dear fellow, closed the case of the missing pocket watch. The father, a Mr. Lyndon, adviced me to go into practice. To use my powers for good, or something sentimental like that." Sherlock didn't smile, but his eyes were filled with warmth as he looked over at the still chuckling John. "I took the advice, he was a formidable fellow after all, and here I am."

"Indeed." John was now sitting up beside him, smoking a cigarette, an amused look on his face. "What a remarkable story. A case to be rembered, maybe even memorized in some way, and I am grateful you choose to share it with me."

"Of course, of course, my pleasure." Sherlock quickly rose from the bed, almost causing John to fall to the floor. The fast movement caused John to flinch violently, and Sherlock cursed himself an idiot. "Ah, pardon my eccentric ways. I am--"

"It is quite all right, blast it all!" John looked like he wanted to faint, but his eyes were not unfocused nor panicked, and Sherlock backed away slowly. "Please, do not treat me different because of my own eccentric ways. I can't stand it."

"I see." Sherlock could hear the shaky quality of John's voice, but decided to do as John had asked of him. He would do anything to put a smile on John's lips again after all. "In that case... I am sure Mrs. Hudson has prepared breakfast, and we are almost an hour late to consume it."

John looked at him with gratitude and rose from the bed to get dressed. "I would indeed like that very much. A good meal, after such an amazing start to this very fine day."

Sherlock huffed a quick laugh and motioned outside the window. The sun had been swallowed up by heavy clouds, and a soft drizzle was falling against the sidewalk. John only lifted his eyebrows and pushed Sherlock out the door.

"It is a good morning none the less. See you in ten minutes." John closed the door in his face. Sherlock looked at the door with surprise, when he heard a quiet laugh from inside, the rascal was laughing at him. Not that he minded, not in the least. It filled him with a slow warmth that John had had such a good nights sleep, and a quiet morning, that he hummed softly as he himself went to get dressed. His fingers twitching for his violin, because right now all he wanted to do was put John down in the most beautiful of notes with the help of his bow.

***

Sherlock was sitting at the table, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, as John entered the room. The composition he had started outside John's door now halfway done. John was in good spirit, though his clothes were from the day before, as he rubbed his hands together with obvious glee as he took a seat.

"Oh, I am quite famished." John started to eat the breakfast with enthusiasm, and had soon polished off a full plate of eggs and ham. It wasn't until he started in on the bread that he paused and looked over at his companion. 

The breakfast held no interest to Sherlock at the moment, his min too full of beautiful notes, and only John's persistent looks made him open his eyes to inquire. "Yes?"

"Your breakfast, Mr. Holmes? Surely you will eat something?" John looked overly worried about this fact, and Sherlock studied him for a moment. Recent illness, army rations, and a hard life would cause a man to eat whenever he could.

"None of that now, dear fellow, Sherlock or Holmes will do. And no fussing, I am quite all right." He waved away John's concern, but the other man was persistent. Before Sherlock had time to interfere John had poured him a cup of tea and arranged eggs and ham onto his plate.

"I'm sure you are. After you have eaten." John hummed to himself as he pushed Sherlock's plate closer to the detective and then started in on his own food once more.

Such an annoying thing, Sherlock fumed for a second, but thought better of it. John was a protector, a man used to take care of people, so of course he would have his new flatmate's best interest at heart. This made Sherlock huff to hide a smile, and with a resigned look he started in on his own breakfast.

***

"Now, to get to the matter at hand." Sherlock groaned softly to himself as he sat down in a chair in front of the lit fire. His stomach was almost too full, his mind sluggish, and he wished he could have said no to John. "The living arrangements."

"Ah, yes." John nodded gravely and sat down on the other chair by the fire, his blue eyes focusing on Sherlock's face with something like contentment in their depths. "What did you have in mind, good sir?"

"John..." Sherlock kept his face neutral, but his voice held a note of irritation. He lightened a pipe and started puffing away with a hidden pout, the smoke rising from the pipe giving away his mood anyway no doubt.

"Oh, all right, I give in." John laughed, leaned back in the chair, and lightened a cigarette. "Let us discuss this matters like gentlemen. Please, do continue... Sherlock?"

"Why, of course, my dear John." He kept his face still as he sat himself more comfortably on the chair with his legs crossed.

John betrayed his amusements at Sherlock's ways by his soft smile, but he kept quiet about it. "I take it we will split the rent, and any other expenses concerning the house, equally."

"Indeed. That sounds no more than fair." Sherlock studied the good doctor as he relaxed further into the comfortable chair. He got the distinct impression this would be a common occurence between them in the future. "Except one thing. I earn a living. While you yourself, doctor, does not. I will therefore take on most of the responsibility for the house."

John looked as if Sherlock had hit him over the head, but quickly gathered his wits about him. "That is not only rude, Holmes, but degrading as well. I do have a pension from the army, and I take on work now and then. Enough to keep off the streets."

"I am aware of this, but--"

"No, no buts. We will split everything equally and that's that, Holmes, or I will leave here at once." John rose from the chair, threw the cigarette in the fire, and started pacing the room with a slight limp. "I would not want to live at the mercy of your charity. I am used to work, to earn my way, and I will do so again."

Sherlock kept quiet and marvelled at the strong man before him. Even now, a day later, his mind was still clear and singing to him. It was amazing. The case he had been working on already wrapped up, and ah, that reminded him. 

"Mrs. Hudson!" He flew up from the chair, jumped down the stairs, and hurried the landlady along. "Mrs. Hudson, I need you to send a telegram to Scotland Yard immediately." Mrs. Hudson complained all the while he was writing the telegram, but accepted the task without question. Sherlock thanked her profoundly and hurried back up the stairs. 

When he entered the living area he found John on the floor, clutching his head, and moaning. The soldier was speaking to himself, trying to calm down, but obviously he was finding it hard to do. The hurt leg was twitching without control beneath him, and his hurt shoulder was cramping something aweful. Sherlock quickly fell to his knees before John and took hold of his arm, slinging it over his shoulder, and heaved him onto his feet and started walking around the room. At first John was shaking, his eyes distant, but as they continued walking he slowly came back to himself. 

"Many apologies, dear Sherlock." John gasped as they rounded the sofa yet again, but Sherlock only shook his head.

"No need, dear John. Since I was the one to cause the attack by my thoughtlessness." Sherlock berated himself at his constant forgetfulness concerning John's mental state. "I give you my word it will not happen again. Forgive me, John."

John had slumped against him, and Sherlock happily took his weight. The tremors had abated and the muscles had begun unclenching. "I do. I would forgive you always, dear Sherlock. It is not your fault."

Sherlock only hummed and helped Watson into his coat and hat, before dressing himself in his own outer garments. With a good bye to Mrs. Hudson they were out the door, Sherlock waving down a carriage. "Barts hospital please, cabby."

Off they went, and the closer they got to Barts the more John came back to his himself. And when they stepped out of the cab John was walking on his own, his limp hardly noticable. They made their way to the hostel close to Barts, where John had kept his things, as if they had spoken and arranged this outing together. 

It pleased Sherlock to no end that John followed his lead without question, and it pleased him even more that John was walking with his arm in his. It was a gesture that spoke of friendship, and Sherlock felt his spine straighten. This amount of trust and familiarity John was showing him made him feel proud in some peculiar way. It made him feel ten feet tall and invincible. It might have been this fact which made him blind to the thugs waiting for them outside the hostel -- or the fact that his mind was still sluggish from all that food earlier -- or maybe even John on his arm.

"Oi! Over 'ere!" One of the thugs shouted into the alley, and Sherlock immediately took a step to the side placing himself in front of John. The soldier would have nothing of it, sneering at him and the thugs with a hard look, and placed himself at Sherlock's elbow. They were soon surrounded by five big men, but Sherlock focused most of his attention on one man. The leader, obviously hired to silence him, and most likely connected to his latest case. 

"Now now, let us behave like gentlemen." Sherlock chided the men, but they only laughed at him. The thugs circled them for a while before they attacked, but Sherlock had hardly moved a muscle before John had taken down two of them. The other three backed away for a moment, and Sherlock looked on in amazement as John picked up a stick he found on the sidewalk and took care of the other three as well. The leader of the thugs was the only one John left concious, and with a vicious growl John threw him down at Sherlock's feet. 

"Stay down." John ordered the man, and placed himself on the man's back. Sherlock didn't know what to say or do at first, too amazed by his dear John, but as the thug groaned in pain he snapped out of it.

"John, please, let the man breathe." Sherlock patted his good soldier's shoulder, and John relaxed his hold on the thug. The man stayed where John had thrown him though. "You need not tell me anything, just listen to my request. Will you come by 221b Baker street tomorrow, and forget this little affair, for a pound?"

The thug leader looked up at him in surprise but quickly nodded his agreement, and with a pound in his pocket he fled the scene. Sherlock's card and adress clutched in his hand.

John looked between Sherlock and the man, but said nothing as he disappeared into the hostel, no doubt getting his things. Sherlock wasn't worried he wouldn't come back down as he had seen nothing but excitement and determination on John's face as he had taken down the five thugs. No, John was not frightened by what had just happened... it excited him. John was so used to the army, the structure and excitement to it, that the slow life of London might not be quite to his taste. Not really. He wanted stimuli, as much as Sherlock himself wanted it, and Sherlock just knew they would be legendary together.

John exited the hostel some time later, looked at the unconcious men on the ground, but walked past them unconcerned as he carried his bags towards Barts. "You coming, Holmes?" He said with confidence, and the rest of Sherlock's fragile and frozen heart was laid bare before the soldier.

"Yes, of course." Sherlock hurried along, linking his arm with John, and took one of his bags to carry. "Back to Baker street?"

"Yes." Was all John said as he flagged down a cab and climbed inside. Sherlock followed him with much curiosity, and when they entered Baker street once more he was bursting with excitement. His expression or body didn't show it, of course, but he was almost vibrating out of his skin. Something had happened between them, and he was curious to see what it was.

John placed the bags in the living area and then took his seat by the fire, Sherlock observing it was the same seat as this morning. This made his heart fluttered in his chest, and he knew this partnership was going to be brilliant.

"Sherlock, please, have a seat." John said with a tired voice and Sherlock instantly obeyed. "I have strained my leg and shoulder, quite recklessly I might add, and more than I should have."

Sherlock didn't react, but his heart was in his throat as he asked, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"You must, I'm afraid." John hissed as he removed his outer jacket, and then the suit jacket, and to Sherlock's displeasure John's shoulder was covered in blood. He quivckly got water, soap, and a clean cloth. 

"John." He fell to his knees before the good soldier and peeled away the west and shirt. His medical knowledge sufficient enough to handle this. "Your wound... I see. Yet you choose to strain it for my sake. Foolish man." 

A weak laugh startled Sherlock and he looked up at John, but the soldier had a distant look in his eyes and wasn't focused on this room anymore. John's eyes were focused on the not so distant past, the war clear on his face, and Sherlock didn't like it one bit. The only saving grace was that John's good hand was absentmindedly stroking Sherlock's short hair, trying to stay in the now. 

Sherlock decided not to dwell on the why in John's action, and put all his full attention to healing his precious doctor instead. His nimble fingers had soon stripped John out of his west and shirt, the bloody garment thrown onto the floor, as he cleaned the wound. He left it to dry as he shifted his focus to John's leg as well, it too was bleeding. There was blood coming through the dress trousers, but John didn't say or do anything as Sherlock helped him out of them. The soldier must have been used to all states of undress, from his time in the army, that he didn't mind Sherlock's hands and eyes all over his naked skin. Sherlock was humbled. This man held so much strenght and character it amazed him. 

Sherlock's mouth was dry, and his hands slightly shaking, as he washed the leg wound. This was too intimate, he thought, but John's hand in his hair kept him on his knees. The stroking motion the only thing keeping him in this room, because these strange feelings were distracting him too much. He only managed to push them aside when John focused his deep blue eyes on him.

"Thank you, dear." John whispered, as he left the land of memories, and focused on Sherlock instead. The strange feelings came back to him as John's eyes filled with such warmth Sherlock had never seen aimed at himself before. "I am obliged to stay with you now."

Sherlock frowned, but kept his hands and face passive as he answered. "That is a peculiar thing to say."

"I've bled for you, Sherlock." John smiled softly and stroked Sherlock's cheeks, making the detective's heart flutter. "It makes me your protector for life."

"Why, John, really?" Sherlock tried to brush the statement aside, but John was onto him.

"I will stay with you, dearest, until I decide my obligation to you is fullfilled. Nothing you say will change my mind, as this promise was forged in blood. A soldier's promise is sacred, something I learned in the East, and I hope you will accept it." John said with a solemn voice, and held on to Sherlock's chin with gentle fingers.

"I, yes... I respect that, of course, dear John." Sherlock was under a spell, he must be, because all he could see, hear, and smell was John. His dear soldier. He was so filled with John the composition he had composed earlier was ringing in his ears.

"Good. It's a promise then." With a relieved smile John sealed the promise, with a soft kiss to Sherlock's forehead, making the detective gasp in surprise. This was completely new to Sherlock and he felt his fingers clench onto John's arms, his breath stuck in his throat, and without thought he held on to John as if his life depended on it.

"Always." Sherlock gasped and leaned against John's sturdy chest, listening to the steady beating of his soldier's heart, trying to calm his frayed nerves. John was wrecking havoc with all his well composed walls and defences, his now exposed heart totally open to anything this soldier wanted from him. Anything.

"Mm, yes, indeed." John cuckled softly, and craddled Sherlock's head to his naked chest as he stroked his short locks.

Sherlock felt at home here. John was, and ever would be, his safe harbour... of that there was no doubt. Sherlock closed his eyes and let himself feel. To soak his senses, and his mind, in this moment. For the first time in his life he felt truly free. Free from his mind, his thoughts, and definitely free from the boring world around him. It felt so good to truly only exist, to hear John's composition playing softly in his mind, and to know his body was in a state of utter relaxation and peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blood oath = When one would shed their blood and offer it onto an altar, or whatever they believed in, and swore to uphold a certain task no matter what. It means you swear to do something, come maiming or murder, because blood would be shed in promise to the task.


	3. Balm for the Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is now properly installed at 221b Baker street, but is severely suffering from the events he experienced in the Afghan war. It's keeping him and Sherlock both awake at night, and Sherlock decides to do something about it.

The scream woke him from his first real sleep in days, and Sherlock was on his feet running before he knew what he'd done. His feet took him up the stairs to John's room in record time, and when he banged the door open he saw John thrashing around on the bed, moaning as if in pain. 

"John!" Sherlock threw himself over John, taking hold of his waving arms, and held him down on the bed. "Stop! You are causing yourself harm. Cease what you are doing this instant!"

John came to, gasping and chipping for air, his whole body covered in sweat and his eyes tormented. For the longest time he couldn't talk, his voice broken from his earlier screaming, but Sherlock waited patiently for him to regain his bearings. Finally John blinked once, took a deep breath, and nodded.

"Ah, excellent." Sherlock let go of John, and sat himself down beside him on the bed. "If you would follow me downstairs I will get you something to drink."

"There is no need." John tried to brush the incident aside, but Sherlock could see the war still raging on inside him and would have none of it.

"Do not take me for a fool, John Watson. I can see you clearly." Sherlock sniffed and stood, he was turned towards the door, his hand outstretched towards John. "I will help you, and you will accept it."

John carefully took his hand and stood, his shaky legs almost giving out under him. "Thank you. You are too kind." He whispered, but Sherlock didn't listen as he dragged John down the stairs.

Sherlock quickly cleaned the sofa from all his many papers, threw them on the desk, and pushed John down on the soft cushions. Using his own thick cover to tuck him in properly. "Be a dear and stay, John, I will be right back."

A puzzled, but kind look, was on John's face as he left the living area to walk downstairs to the kitchen. He needed a couple of minutes to collect himself, his nerves almost as frayed as John's -- these night terrors wrecked havoc with them both in differemtnt ways --and he breathed a little easier when he saw Mrs. Hudson already making tea for them.

"Ah, splendid." He smiled softly at her, and Mrs. Hudson nodded in understanding.

"Aye, I too heard poor Mr. Watson just now." She sounded upset, but her movements were calm, and Sherlock sat down by the kitchen fire. This constant battle John had with his mind was causing them all distress, and Sherlock wished he could carve the memories out of John's mind and burn them. He wanted so badly to help, but there was so little he could do. War did this to a person and Sherlock wished, not for the first time, that John could have been spared.

"Indeed, old war wounds, and not properly healed." Sherlock whispered back, his head in his hands, and was startled slightly when Mrs. Hudson rubbed his shoulder.

"It'll be all right, Mr. Holmes. Just give it time." Her voice was strong and full of conviction, and Sherlock decided he was going to make damn sure John would be okay in the end.

"I will defer to your supperior knowledge in these matters, Mrs. Hudson. You lost your husband to extraordinary circumstances too, after all." Sherlock hummed to himself, and looked over at his landlady with knowing eyes. "I know not enought about pain, loss and torment to give an oppinion."

Mrs. Hudson handed him the tray, her eyes filled with memories of past pain, and Sherlock took it with an apologetic look on his face. It had been a lousy thing to do, bringing up her late husband, but sometimes he just couldn't help himself. It was fascinating to study pain and loss in people, because it affected everyone differently, and he knew his keen mind wanted all the information it could get its greedy hands on. His craving for stimuli often trampled everything else underfoot. 

"It is of no matter." She said with a weary sigh. "Time will heal my wounds too. Good night now, Mr. Holmes."

"Good night, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock looked after her as she slowly made her way back to bed. Yes, she had killed her late husband, and Sherlock had known it since the beginning. He had helped her, in his subtle and efficient way, without her knowledge. A most delicate crime indeed, and the late Mr. Hudson had deserved it. Violence was never justified, no matter what the law said about it. 

With a shrug he made his way upstairs with his burden of tea and biscuits, and as he placed the tray on the side table he noticed John was fingering his violin. At first he wanted to snatch it back, his mind screaming at him to protect it, but he quickly killed those emotions. John looked at peace and calm while handling his violin, and Sherlock wanted to keep that look on his face. With nimble fingers Sherlock took the violin from John's gentle hand, placed it under his chin, and started playing a soft melody.

John instantly relaxed back against the sofa, his eyes clear and calm, and Sherlock hummed. If this was what it took to keep John's demons at bay he would gladly play for John every hour of every day from the rest of their lives. The tea was quickly forgotten by them both, and as Sherlock continued playing John relaxed completely with a sigh of contentment. 

It wasn't until Sherlock started singing, more like a soft humming than actual words, that John gave into his body's demands and fell asleep. Sherlock continued playing and singing for some time, but when John interrupted him with a loud snore Sherlock quit his playing with a huff. John looked at peace, no more nightmares tormenting him, and Sherlock knew he had done something good. For once he had put someone else's comfort before his own. It was therefore no suprise when a deep and warm feeling started expanding inside him, and with a small smile he put away his violin.

He now knew how he was going to fight John's demons and it gave him hope and conviction. Victory was the only acceptable outome, of course. What was a few nightmares against his determinatio? Nothing that is, and he would continue to prove it again and again until John was free. Music had always been soothing to his own overactive mind, and it gave him great pleasure John's mind was similar to his own in this regard. 

That settled it, he would finish composing John's own special tune right now. That way he would be able to play it to John sooner rather than later. It filled him with a deep joy, and without thought to his own tired body he started writing down the notes he had composed so far. It was a complex piece and Sherlock was sure John would appreciate it.

He was still composing, humming the lyrics he had decided would go well with the tune, when John woke late the next morning. The soldier yawned and stretched as he looked over at Sherlock with amused eyes.

"A late night, Sherlock? Or should I say late morning?" John shook his head, noticing Sherlock was only half listening. "Have you slept at all?"

Finally Sherlock jotted down the last notes and turned his attention towards John. He deduced everything from John's expressive face, and rolled his eyes as he rose from his desk. "Sleep is hard to acchieve when my mind is preoccupied with more important matters. I will sleep later. Do not worry, dear John."

"You do make me worry, Sherlock. Especially when you tell me you've been up all night..." John looked over his shoulder at the notes before him. "... composing?"

"Mm, indeed. Composing." Sherlock felt John's warm body all along his back, and it felt delicious.

"I don't even know how to adress this, so... I will let this issue lie." John shook his head with resignation as he turned to walk up the stairs. "I'm going to change, and then we'll talk. You can not treat yourself in this manner."

Sherlock was stunned, because it sounded like the good doctor was going to be setting down rules -- for the both of them, no doubt -- maybe even give him a lecture. While a part of him rebelled at the thought, another part of him felt cared for and even loved. It was a feeling he hadn't felt in years, not since Mycroft had left for higher education, and suprisingly he sat himself down to wait for John to come back down.

Apparently a big part of him wanted John to care for him, not that he knew completely way, but Sherlock resigned himself to this fact. He might not be the most emotional person out there, but his understanding of himself was top notch. If most of him wanted John's love and attention, then he would accept this fact. And if a tiny tiny part of him also wanted John to brand his name into his soul, then he could see and accept that as well. There was not much he wouldn't do for John. It was mind numbing, as well as extremely stimulating, to know this about huimself. And Sherlock actually smiled as John entered the room a while later.

"Now, Sherlock, about your nightly habits..." John started, and Sherlock hummed happily. While John lectured him about his bad habits Sherlock could feel tingles running through his body. He felt alive. It was exhilarating. John truly was the best drug for him, and Sherlock was happy he got to have his daily fix like this. Because no matter in what way John was with him, it gave him all he needed to function perfectly. 

So perfectly, in fact, that he fell asleep during John's lecture. And it wasn't until many hours later that Sherlock woke and understood he had been manipulated by an equal. Because as much as John loved the sound of his violin, they both knew Sherlock loved the sound of John's voice even more. 

They truly deserved one another. 

Poor Mrs. Hudson, they would be a menace to look after they would.

Somehow Sherlock didn't think she would mind though, because she had as much of a devious mind as they had.

Maybe this was meant to be. The three of them against the world. He liked the sound of that, and with a mischievous smile he gave in to his tired body. He could do with a few more hours of sleep. 

With an empty mind he fell asleep, not knowing John had been studying him. With a knowing look John sat down in front of the fire to smoke. The soft exhales, and the fire crackling in the hearth, soothing them both in ways they didn't fully understand yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Balm = Anything that makes you feel better. No matter how big or small this something is.


End file.
